


Regularity

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2017 [41]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Romance, Spoilers, Strong Language, Trauma, loss of possessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Sequel to And Now, as Tears Subside. A morning before work, with Harry and Merlin.





	Regularity

“Harry, you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine, Merlin. I’ll be out presently.”  
  
This was an interaction that had become integral to their relationship.  
  
An example:  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m alright, don’t worry yourself.”  
  
“You look a bit pale.”  
  
“Oh, well, I didn’t sleep well last night.”  
  
“Nightmare?”  
  
“Goodness no, some idiot was arguing with his girlfriend outside. You didn’t hear that?”  
  
It was a load of bollocks, but it kept things moving. When one lived in close quarters with a man who could read them like a book, one was mindful of making sure the charade of good health and mental fortitude was kept up.  
  
Living with Merlin was something of a surreal experience. Harry had been by his old street, where his house had been before it had been blown to hell by Poppy Adams. Merlin told him that Eggsy had been living there, hence why it had been targeted; JB, the dog Eggsy had been willing to give up Kingsman for, was killed in the blast, along with a friend of Eggsy’s who was looking after him. With them had gone everything of Eggsy’s, and everything left of Harry’s that had not been on his person the day he went to the South Glade Mission Church, or that had not been removed by Merlin.  
  
“I went by a few times,” Merlin told him over coffee one morning, when it was raining and the drops added a pleasant background noise to everything. “He left everything as it was, really: Slept in the spare room, left yours untouched. Left Mr. Pickle on the wall, and your butterflies. He did take- Oh, bloody hell, forgot about that!” Merlin pushed himself up and out of his chair, and wobbled unsteadily for a moment as he found his balance. “Stupid things,” He grunted, glaring down at the prosthetics. For the time-being he was limited to low-tech ones, at least until he could walk properly. Then, God help them all, he’d make some unholy machines that included wheels and saw-blades and God knows what else.  
  
Harry waited patiently, let Merlin grumble and curse at the prosthetics before hobbling out of the room. His natural instinct was to follow and to watch carefully, dreading the sound of Merlin crashing to the floor (falls, they had been assured by Ginger, her medical team, and the doctors they’d attended in London, were normal and to be expected). But he resisted; Merlin was a man, not an infant, and he would appreciate Harry trailing him around and catching him every time he stumbled, no matter how nauseous Harry got whenever he did.  
  
Since the incident- the one that Merlin rather brazenly referred to as the ‘Pop Goes the Kingsman Debacle’- Harry had found himself oddly, intensely anxious at the sight of Merlin being in any sort of distress. He remembered too clearly the state Merlin had been after the mine had detonated, pale and bloody and very _dead_ -looking, remembered the wheeze in his voice when he’d spoke after waking up, remembered how horrendous his legs had looked after the amputation.  
  
And so when Merlin said “Christ, Harry, stop fucking hovering over me, I’m fine,” Harry always stepped back, always reminded himself to be rational; but inside his heart was pounding and his stomach was turning, because the mere _reminder_ that Merlin was not as whole as hale as he ought to have been was enough to send him into a mild anxiety attack.  
  
Merlin hobbled back into the room, two large binders tucked beneath his arm. He reached the table and set them down, lowering himself back into his seat and sweeping them open all in one movement.  
  
It took Harry a moment to realize what he was looking at. But when he did, he felt faintly emotional:  
  
**GERMANY-** **1**  
  
**ENGLAND-** **5**  
  
“Eggsy took them down, placed them in here and gave them to me.”  
  
“Now, why would he do that?”  
  
Merlin’s lip quirked up, and he shrugged gently. “He’s a perceptive lad.”  
  
Harry shook his head, flipping carefully through the countless pages of The Sun that had previously been posted on his office wall. He made a note to thank Eggsy for not only inadvertently saving a piece of Harry’s home and history, but for also being sharp enough to spot Merlin’s grief and offer something significant in condolences. Eggsy was a good boy, a good _man_ , and often Harry found himself having to forcibly pull back, finding himself moving a little more into the realm of parenthood than was appropriate; Eggsy was Lee’s son, not his, even if Harry was certain that the swell of pride in his chest at Eggsy’s accomplishments must be at least a taste of what parents felt when their children succeeded in life.  
  
From the looks of it, every single article was present. Eggsy hadn’t missed a one, and he’d even put them in the right order. Harry became somewhat lost in the memories, each article recalling a specific memory with surprising speed and precision. Somewhere in the midst of it he felt Merlin’s hand settle on his shoulder, warm and solid, and Harry sighed without even realizing that he’d been nearly holding his breath.  
  
Abruptly, he did not want to go to work that day. He wanted to stay in with Merlin, wanted to do some of the most _disgustingly_ domestic things together that they used to mock couples for when they were younger and still caught up in the novelty of their relationship. Was it a sign of old age, or simply stress that he was exhausted even before the day had properly started? He wanted to get back into bed with Merlin and stave off the burden of responsibility for one more day.  
  
But alas, the test of true responsibility is taking it on even when one does not want it, and so Harry shut the binders and turned to Merlin. “Could you feed the dog?”  
  
Merlin nodded, not visibly bothered or uneasy at the sudden change of topic; he’d known Harry for too long to question his attempts at diverting from uncomfortable subjects. “Can do.”  
  
Mr. Radish (“If you name that bloody dog ‘Mr. Cucumber’ I’m going to give you another brain-injury,” Merlin had threatened.) came trotting into the kitchen, tiny tail waggling furiously as he watched Merlin move to the cabinet where they kept the food. Really, though Harry wouldn’t say it was a grand experience, he was quite proud of Eggsy for coming up with a way to startle Harry’s brain back into semi-working order; pointing a gun at a puppy was about as startling as one could get, really.  
  
The loss of Mr. Pickle- or rather, his preserved body- had been one of the few things that Harry was seriously, honestly distressed at having lost. Losing his clothing was troublesome, losing his butterfly collection was exasperating, but realizing that he had lost Mr. Pickle to the flames had been downright painful. It brought back the ugly memories of the day Harry had been forced to have him put down, the pancreatitis becoming too severe, too untreatable in his advanced canine age. For Christ’s sake, Harry had cried that day, and he could count the number of times he’d cried as an adult on one hand.  
  
Compulsively, Harry reached up and rubbed his eye- or rather, the skin below the socket where his eye _used_ to be. He’d gotten better, over time, at slipping his finger under the lens rather than lifting the glasses; Harry had found that people, friends and strangers included, tended to be a bit startled when they saw what was beneath the blackened lens. Hell, even Merlin still jumped a little if and when he was unexpectedly greeted with the sight of Harry’s damaged eye.  
  
Harry didn’t blame Merlin for his reaction; partially because it would be hypocritical, given that Harry had a tendency to forget himself and stare at Merlin’s legs from time to time, and partially because- well, it was human nature. The human mind was wired to detect things that were strange or unusual in a person’s environment; that which was not normal was a potential threat. And it was surprisingly easy to forget, when you’d known someone for twenty-odd years or more, that they were missing a body-part until you were staring at them and thinking ‘wait, there’s something wrong with this picture- oh, right, of course, his eye’s gone’.  
  
It was human nature to be surprised or curious at things that were unusual or beyond the norm. So when Merlin, or Eggsy, stared at him (Tequila, as a rule, did not; having never known Harry with both eyes, one-eyed Harry was entirely normal to him), Harry let it go without remark. When a little boy in a restaurant tugged on Harry’s jacket and asked him if he was a pirate, Harry humored him and said that yes, he was, and assured the boy’s apologetic mother that no harm was done. When people did a double-take at the sight of his glasses, and then quickly pretended like they hadn’t noticed, Harry didn’t hold a grudge.  
  
It was simple, innocent human nature, and he did not begrudge people these things so long as they weren’t rude about it.  
  
Harry had looked at his eye- or rather, his eye-socket- plenty of times in the last year and a half. As a resident/lab-rat of the Statesmen, he’d peeled off the eye-patch and examined in many times, and done so without much in the way of anxiety because he had no memory of how he’d lost it in the first place. Ginger had said he’d been in an accident, that his eye had been damaged beyond repair. _Troublesome_ , he’d thought to himself, a vague hum of nervousness resonating at the back of his mind. _Terribly troublesome._ _Mother will be so bothered by it._  
  
Now Harry looked at the empty socket in the mirror and the hum of nervousness turned into a screeching, hellish orchestra banging about his brain. Remembering it made all the difference; remembering the smooth motion of Valentine’s arm as he brought the gun up to eye-level, remembering the spark of alarm and fear right before the shot, remembering that single, heart-stopping moment when he realized that he was about to be shot in the head, which meant that he was about to _die_ , was nearly enough to put Harry into a panic attack if he dwelled on it for too long.  
  
So he didn’t dwell on it.  
  
In fact, he did his level-best to ignore it.  
  
That was probably why Merlin insisted on asking if he was _really_ alright, with that subtle touch of ‘no, Harry, I mean it, are you actually alright or are you putting me on, because sometimes I can’t tell’.  
  
“You about ready to go?” Merlin had just carefully straightened up after feeding Mr. Radish- kneeling and rising without assistance was still difficult- and was looking at Harry expectantly. Harry hadn’t realized that he’d been starting blankly at the same page in his book of Sun articles for the last few minutes.  
  
“Ready enough,” Harry responded mildly, polishing off the last of his tea and being careful to keep it clear of the book. “Let me put this in the closet, so that _someone-_ ” He directed an arched eyebrow at the unruly puppy on the floor, currently gobbling his food with manic speed, “-doesn’t decide to make it his lunch.”  
  
“Good idea. Wouldn’t want it to suffer the same fate as my slippers; little bugger’s lucky I don’t actually _need_ them anymore.”  
  
Harry closed the book and brought it upstairs, debating briefly on whether or not the book would be safer in a drawer for the time being- Mr. Radish was a clever fellow, he knew when something was being kept from him- and decided that the closet would suffice for the workday. He placed it on a high shelf where the puppy couldn’t hope to reach it and shut the door tightly, testing to make sure it was latched.  
  
He would have to be careful, in the future. He would have to find something permanent and secure eventually, because that folder contained almost the entirety of Harry’s personal possessions that he had left from his life before Vincent Valentine and the Statesmen. The possibility of it being damaged or destroyed in some way made him anxious, and a small stitch appeared in his chest.  
  
Harry studiously ignored it, tried to push the anxiety away, and instead moved to the mirror to check himself over one more time before departing. Overall, he looked fine at first glance, but his brain naturally began to itemize- his hair was fine (smooth it back anyway), his tie was straight (give it a tug just to be sure), his suit was impeccable (give it a scan just in the event there was a stain or loose thread he’d missed) and his glasses were-  
  
His glasses were-  
  
The anxiety he’d failed to push away came back with a vengeance, growing larger, daunting, and Harry suddenly found that he was having trouble breathing. He tried to take in a deep breath, but came up short- his chest felt tight, and that stitch was back, more painful than it had been before. He moved away from the mirror on reflex, reaching for the doorknob, intending to go to the bathroom and- and- do _something_ with water, whether it was drinking it or wetting his face or dunking his head into it.  
  
Anything to stop what he knew was coming: The terror, the impending sense of doom, the psychological reminder that it was more than just missing possessions and an empty eye-socket that separated him from his old life.  
  
But he couldn’t make it out the door. He gripped the knob until his knuckles were white, pressed his forehead against the wood and tried to stave off the attack, tried to _make_ himself move past it, but the funny thing was that if they were so easy to control then they wouldn’t be such a _problem._ Harry’s breathing became ragged and things came back in fleeting pictures- Valentine, the gun, the shot, darkness, drowning, dead dogs and a gutted, burnt building he used to call home and the butterflies, the _butterflies_ -  
  
“Harry, you alright? We’re cutting it a bit close!”  
  
Merlin obviously didn’t suspect a real problem, probably assumed Harry was fussing with the book or the closet, or else he would have come upstairs immediately. Harry gulped air, twisted the doorknob, and called out, “I’ll be right there!” He was relieved to hear that his voice was sufficiently steady- nothing, at least, that would cause Merlin to suspect he was anything but fine.  
  
It took a few minutes of forcibly trying to control his breathing, using the doorknob as a rather insufficient stress-ball, until the worst of it passed. Harry returned to a state that he could control, to an extent, and he did his damndest to make sure that he would be well if he stepped out of that room and went to face Merlin; he was right, they _were_ cutting it close, and they didn’t need any serious discussions further delaying them.  
  
His heart was still pounding when he took a cursory look into the mirror to make sure that his appearance was still appropriate, and what a sight- Harry did not have so much as a hair out of place, not a single visible sign that he’d just gone through something mentally and physically stressful save for the slight pallor to his face. There was nothing he could do about that, and so he would wait to see if Merlin mentioned it first before trying to explain it away; he could always claim something had fallen on him from the closet and startled him.  
  
Harry took a breath, then opened the door and hurried downstairs.  
  
Merlin waited at the bottom of the steps, and rolled his eyes when he saw Harry’s approach. “Made a meal out of that, didn’t you? He’s a puppy, not a jewel-thief, Harry; he’ll not touch the bloody thing if you don’t leave it in plain sight.”  
  
“I like to be _careful_ ,” Harry said, as though he hadn’t just been in terrible distress. “Puppies get into things, if you let your guard down.”  
  
Merlin scoffed, then opened the door and motioned for Harry to step out ahead of him.  
  
They were quiet for the duration of the ride to the current Kingsman headquarters; rebuilding was going to be a long process, and it would never be as it had been before, but there were some Kingsman properties that hadn’t been destroyed by Poppy, buildings smaller and not significant enough in purpose to be targeted. This one was in the country, not far from where their official headquarters had been.  
  
If, by the time they’d reached it, Merlin had any suspicions about Harry’s noticeable lack of conversation, he said nothing. They did precisely as they’d been doing for the last two weeks, parking in the same place and walking the same path into the building, side by side as always.  
  
“I’ve some work to do, let me know if you need me,” Merlin said, tablet out and already flipping through something or other on it.  
  
“Will do,” Harry agreed, and stepped towards their meeting room. When he opened the door, there were two people seated at the table, and they both looked up as he walked in. “Galahad,” Harry greeted smoothly, lips twitching with a threat of a smile; Eggsy had truly come into his own as a Kingsman. He couldn’t have been happier to relinquish his handle to him. “Good to see you.”  
  
“And you, Arthur,” Eggsy said with a grin. “You’re late.”  
  
“So I am,” Harry noted, tone mild. “Agent Tequila, a pleasure as always.”  
  
“And you, sir.” Tequila must not yet have been clued in to the inside joke of Harry’s lateness, because he stayed still and solid at Eggsy’s side and did not so much as chuckle or smirk. It had occurred to Harry recently that Tequila found him to be intimidating- and that had all sorts of fun possibilities that Harry hadn’t taken advantage of just yet. For now, he was biding his time.  
  
Harry took his seat at the head of the table, facing two of his three agents as confidently as if he’d been facing the full set of usual Kingsman agents.  
  
“Alright then, gentlemen: Let’s get to business.”  
  
-End


End file.
